


Windhover

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Gen, Post-Six-Thatchers, The Six Thatchers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9183511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This is about the aftermath of The Six Thatchers. I think many of you will find it surprisingly non-angsty...but I think you will end up understanding why, and what I am trying to say about what Moftiss are doing with their central character--and somewhat of what I see in some secondary characters.It's got a touch of implicit Mystrade, because. Just because. It's got poetry, and is named after poetry: Another lovely Gerard Manley Hopkins piece. For a change I will presume to educate you rather than just throw this crap at you: a windhover is a common folk name for a common kestrel--a very small falcon that can ride the wind, seeming to stand still in the sky as it waits for prey--or ducking and dodging and finding a new line of search with agile ease, surfing the currents. It's so small and light and so skilled in its glide that it doesn't need to circle in those huge hoops other raptors incise on the heavens, but determines its own place on the breast of the wind, steady and firm, riding the gusts effortlessly--then, seeing prey, it plummets in a lancing dive earthward. Windhover--a gorgeous word for a gorgeous bird.





	

"Oi, Sherlock, _answer_ , you bloody twat. Are you in there?"

"Bugger off, Guthro-- _working._ "

"Yeah? Prove it. Open the door, sunshine."

"You can hear me out there--why should I get up?"

"Because I trust my eyes better than my ears, mate. For all I know you're a recording, yeah?"

"Wrong."

"Could be."

Sherlock shook his head, scowling as he hunkered over his laptop at the desk between the front windows. "That's ridiculous."

"Not if you're some fancy bit of programming. Whossit--AI? You could be an expert program attempting to pass the Turing Test."

"Oh, now, don't pretend to be knowledgeable and informed--it's out of character."

"Then just chalk it up as stubborn, brain-dead perseverance. Dogged persistence. Whatever. Open the door."

"I'm not decent."

"When were you ever?"

"Low blow."

"Open the door."

"You're repeating yourself."

"I'll keep on repeating myself till you give in, you damned tosser."

"You wouldn't do this to anyone else, Lestrade. It's quite unfair and entirely unjustified."

"Wrong, wrong, and wrong. And I suspect a few moments thought will tell you why it's not unfair or unjustified. Does 'May 16th, 2006, Montague Street' bring back memories?"

"All right--I'll cede you unfair and unjustified--but I doubt you'd do it to anyone else."

"Yeah, right. Open the door and tell me who else I'm checking up on by reading the baby-food on my previously immaculate lapel, sunshine. You're not the only one suffering right now..."

Sherlock sat, silent, then sighed. "Point taken--though your reasoning is flawed." He stood, sorted out his blue dressing gown, and padded barefoot to the door of the Baker Street flat. He unlocked the deadbolt, turned the lower knob, and let the door swing open.

Lestrade was fast, but not fast enough to hide his relief on seeing Sherlock in good health--if still lounging in his robe in spite of the mid-afternoon hour. "You know, it's going to be dark before long," he said. "You might consider some trousers. Pair of pants, even."

"How do you know I'm not wearing pants?"

Lestrade pushed past the younger man, and grimaced. "Known you for goin' on a decade. If I put a bet on your pantsless state, would I lose?"

"Um.  Probably not," Sherlock said, and closed the door behind his guest. "I'd offer tea, but you might accept, and then I'd never be rid of you."

"It's all right--I know where the kettle is already," Lestrade said, and sauntered into the kitchen, where he quickly filled the kettle and set up two new mugs for fresh tea. He risked a look in the fridge. "Well. At least you've got food in yours..."

Sherlock was on instant alert. "John's not eating? He's not keeping the house stocked?"

"Nah...someone else I worry about. It's not like you're completely unique, Sonny Jim. I've got pet neurotics tucked into flats all over London, me: better hobby than breeding pigeons, even. Anorexic neurotics who can't be arsed to get the shopping in. But you've been a smart boy and bought up a few days take-out all at once, haven't you?"

"It's efficient." 

"And it means I can cross impending starvation off your chart. It doesn't look like you bought in and then forgot to eat." Lestrade glanced around the flat, clearly noting the empty cartons, the glasses with remains of juice or water, the tea-cups with their faint dried shellac of tea, milk, and sugar. "So. That's for the best."

Sherlock grunted, studying the copper as closely as the copper was studying the flat. "Strained carrots--a large sploodge. You actually were allowed in..." 

Lestrade looked back at him, eyes too knowing. "He forgot to tell Molly to put me on the 'keep out' list," he said, comfortingly. "And Moll's not letting him know I come by if she can help it. Between her, and checking the baby and the premises, and surveillance from a distance, I can pretty much assure you he's eating, drinking, sleeping, and taking care of practical issues. More the deponent sayeth not. But Rosie's healthy, and the larder's been stocked by John as well as by Molly, and there is a regular changing of the guard of people looking after them both. Not just Moll."

Sherlock grunted, but made no effort to pretend he did not welcome the information. "Good," he said, and dropped wearily into his arm chair. "Good," he said again, and studied his fingers. They shook lightly. "I worried."

Lestrade frowned, and considered--the words, the faint palsy of the long fingers, the weary fall into the chair. Everything, processed a byte at a time, and pondered in serious concern. At last he said, softly, "You're not the only one, sunshine--and John's not the only one we worry over."

Sherlock glanced up, then blinked. "Oh. No-no-no. What--did you expect to find me pumped solid with morphine? Or rattling along on a cocaine high?"

Lestrade's brown eyes were somber, and he made no effort to avoid Sherlock's affronted glare. "Happened before, Sherlock. No fair acting like there's no reason to worry it might happen again."

Sherlock and he faced off, then--both silent, both stubborn, neither wishing to say too much, neither willing to give up their respective positions. At last Sherlock's face went sly. "Ah--but I've got  _work_ , Gomez. A  _case."_ '

"Yeah, right."

"I'm serious," he said--and his voice suggested in grim tones that he'd never been more serious in his life. "I've got a case. An assignment from..." His voice suddenly wavered. He blinked, looked away, set his jaw--in spite of lips attempting to contort with pain. He gathered himself. "I've got a case from a dear and valued--" Now he stopped entirely.

Lestrade frowned, studying him. His eyes narrowed. "A dear what, Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply--and nothing came out. He took a deep breath, and said, softly. "An...associate."

Lestrade frowned harder, then said softly, with sudden understanding. "Oh. A  _friend_."

Sherlock turned, then, too worn by his effort to maintain the pretense. He nodded, and said far more softly, "Yes. A...friend."

Lestrade licked his lips, pondered some more, arms crossed over his chest as he considered what he'd learned. Gently, he said, "Not John."

"No. Not John."

Lestrade considered...almost drew a conclusion. Stopped himself. At last said, "Promise you'll tell me in your own time?"

Sherlock pouted, hunched--then said, sullenly. "Very well. But only because..."

"Only because she'd have had your arse if you didn't promise, and keep the promise too--right?"

Sherlock nodded, not meeting the other man's eyes. "Yes." The single word was quiet, sad, lonely.

Lestrade nodded, too, comprehending more than he suspected Sherlock realized. "Is it a good case?"

"It's an important case," Sherlock said, redefining. "Difficult. Perhaps impossible--I'm not sure yet. But it's work. Something to focus on."

As he spoke his voice firmed, his spine straightened. He stood. He walked to the desk and looked down at his laptop. "It's--steadying."

Lestrade nodded. "Aye. It would be..." He watched--and even as he watched Sherlock fell into the screen, dropped into his labor, and settled, mind occupied, spirit in focus, drive holding him steady. "So--you'll be all right for now?"

"Mmmm...." It wasn't clear whether Sherlock had even heard him--Sherlock was hunting again. Riding the currents of data. Learning, planning, considering. Preparing. A windhover, Lestrade thought--a windhover riding the river of wind, standing over the data below. Hunting.

"Yeah. Ok, sunshine. I'll be back in a few days to make sure you're still right and tight," Lestrade said--and was unsurprised to get no reaction. He grinned a dour grin, and shook his head, then left, closing the flat door behind him and locking it with the spare key he did not generally let Sherlock know he owned. He trundled down the narrow stairs, went out the door, strode easily along the walk until he was certain he was out of sight and hearing range--then got out his mobile and called a number.

"Yes? How is he?" Mycroft's voice was tense; his nerves showing far too well.

"He's fine, Mike. He's got...work." 

"Work?" The tone was incredulous.

"Yeah. And...look, this is a long shot, but I think Mary--Rosamund--AGRA. I think she somehow left him a job. He's taking it seriously. Dead seriously. I've seen him this caught up, but not often. It's keeping him sane, Mike. We probably want to monitor his take-out orders to make sure he's eating, but I don't think he needs us...hovering." He gave a dry chuckle. "He's the one who's hovering, now--a hunting hawk. Windhover."

Mycroft tsked--but also sounded convinced. "Yes. All right. I can see it--but we need to find out what she left him to do. I do not trust Mary Watson to keep Sherlock out of danger."

"No one can keep Sherlock out of danger. Not you, not me, not John. Not Mary. But she's keeping him sane and focused. And--something changed, Mike. I've never before seen it--he's..." 

"What?" Mycroft was worried again.

"Shh. Shhhhh. Nothing bad. Good, even. Mike--he cares. He's not dreaming up a million excuses why none of this was his fault. He's reckoning with loss...and he's facing it and his part in it. I swear it. Somehow this got through where nearly forty years of damage never did."

Mycroft was silent, then. Finally, he said, tentatively, "You're sure?"

"Hell, no. Not sure. This is Sherlock. But..." He closed his eyes, imagining the man he'd left in the flat, already lost in his hunt. The man who'd so clearly mourned--mourned Mary, mourned the loss of John and little Rosamund. "Yeah," he said, finally, voice firm and certain and comforting. "Yeah. I'm sure. He's growing up, Mike. Let him."

Mycroft drew in a deep, rather watery sounding breath, and released it. With bittersweet humor he said, "Very well...my rock-steady falcon. I'll trust your eye. But you'll still check in on him?"

"Yeah. 'Course I will, you dimmock." Lestrade's voice was fond. "Now--go. Have a cuppa and a few ginger nuts. Plan for dinner. I do not want to find your fridge empty again...you hear?"

"Hearing and obeying," Mycroft chirped, all sarky attitude and laughter in response to the scold. Then, softly, he said, "Thank you."

And long after Lestrade had hung up and gone his way into his day's other assignments, he smiled down at his mobile, thinking of Lestrade, steady and fleet and fine, riding the winds, seeking out London's secrets: his fine, graceful falcon, breasting the currents and riding the light itself...so steady he seemed to stand on air. 

His windhover.

 


End file.
